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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307688">we meet now and then on a winter’s day (and i am all the better for it)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes'>dames_for_jamesbarnes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order: SVU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Kinda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:13:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, and when you look up, a boy is leaning over you. His green eyes are startling, and you think he’s apologizing, but your eyes have to blink away some reflexive tears to really see the way his lips are moving. You’re still dazed, but you realize that it’s three of them, leaning over you, and you don’t like the way they’re staring.</p>
<p>“That’s what you get for running your mouth, Barba,” a boy teases, reaching forward to punch the kid directly above you in the shoulder. He takes it, but he’s still focused on you, those eyes not giving you a break. It makes your face redden, and you dip your chin, clench your jaw.</p>
<p>“Shut it, Eddie,” he says quickly, and it takes you a moment to recognize the words. You just manage a tight smile and groan as you shift off of your ankle. “Are you all right?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rafael Barba/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we meet now and then on a winter’s day (and i am all the better for it)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first attempt at barba, please don't make fun of me! but, really, labor of love, and hope you enjoy! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re too clumsy for your own good. </p>
<p>Your limbs are gangly, your feet are too big, and every step feels like a struggle to stay upright.  It’s the worst of times, tenth grade.</p>
<p>And high schoolers are brutal, and you get a feeling it’s extra so in New York.  They don’t take no for an answer, they laugh in your face and spit on you (figuratively… sometimes). Girls trip you in their stunning shoes that your feet could never fit in, poke at your knobby knees, and boys don’t even bother with you.</p>
<p>You’re new, and a loner, and can’t keep your books in your hands, and it all seems to combine into an ugly cocktail, one that makes you lash out. Other loners usually have one thing wrong with them. You have two left feet and a name no one knows. Easy target.</p>
<p>So you don’t see the three boys in front of you, walking home, because your head is ducked and your knees ache from the way you fell in the middle of the damn hallway. And one of them for sure doesn’t see you. He’s walking backwards, his mouth running, but you don’t hear anything either, not what he’s saying, not his friends who try to warn him in attempts of Spanish and English. </p>
<p>You feel the collision, though. It’s not violent, but the girth of his bookbag into your chest knocks you backwards onto your ass. You cry out in pain, one of your ankles catching underneath you, and it feels like something twists, hard enough to hurt. </p>
<p>Well. It wasn’t as if you were having such a good day before.</p>
<p>“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, and when you look up, a boy is leaning over you. His green eyes are startling, and you think he’s apologizing, but your eyes have to blink away some reflexive tears to really see the way his lips are moving. You’re still dazed, but you realize that it’s three of them, leaning over you, and you don’t like the way they’re staring.</p>
<p>“That’s what you get for running your mouth, Barba,” a boy teases, reaching forward to punch the kid directly above you in the shoulder. He takes it, but he’s still focused on you, those eyes not giving you a break. It makes your face redden, and you dip your chin, clench your jaw.</p>
<p>“Shut it, Eddie,” he says quickly, and it takes you a moment to recognize the words. You just manage a tight smile and groan as you shift off of your ankle. “Are you all right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m fine,” you tell him. He nods at that, but he still doesn’t really take a step back. Just pulls up from his crouched position. “Really, just. Uh. Sorry, I guess.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to give him an excuse,” the third boy informs her. “Hey, Rafi, give her some space, you don’t have to keep her on the ground.”</p>
<p>With that he pulls back, and you get a good look at them. The three of them are in uniform. You recognize the colors, your block a healthy mix of that particular school’s students and the P.S. you attended. The two behind the one who ran into you – what was it, Rafi? – have their ties undone, shirts untucked. The boy in front of you has his uniform perfect, however, and you watch as he lifts his hand to run through the front of his hair. He looks a little older, almost adult, and your limbs feel like the legs of a fawn, a jumbled heap. You know you look disheveled, in comparison, making you drop your eyes before you push yourself up.</p>
<p>“Can you stand?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m fine,” you bite out, and the day comes back to you in a wave, one that makes your eyes began to water. “Just. Leave me be, all right?”</p>
<p>“And leave you on the ground?” He scoffs like the implication itself is an offense. It’s as if he doesn’t recognize the scowl on your face as being directed towards him. “Come on, take my hand.”</p>
<p>He reaches out to you. His hand is almost shoved in your face, and you pull back for a moment before looking at the group of them.</p>
<p>They don’t seem… mean. Just… boys. Your mother’s voice sings in your head, reminding you that asking for help isn’t a weakness, just a fact of life. And while you wish that wasn’t true, the fact of life was also you were in a lot of pain.</p>
<p>With a sigh, you settle on reaching out and taking it, and when he starts to help pull you up the other two assist. You tried to ignore the prickle of your eyes, closing them as you were lifted from the ground.</p>
<p>However, your ankle gives out as soon as you put weight on it. You make it to your full height for a moment, before suddenly you’re falling forward again.</p>
<p>But they catch you. Rafi does, really, and the other boys help get you to standing. You ignore the look that the two of them give you, eye rolls and shared smirks.</p>
<p>“That ankle’s not going to take you home,” the Barba kid tells you. You glance down at it, wincing at the swelling, and he turns to his friends. “Let’s walk her.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, did you break it?” Eddie asks, horrified, but that earns him a smack on the back of the head from the third friend.</p>
<p>“Que eres estúpido? Shut up, Eddie, it’s twisted at the worst.”</p>
<p>A snort left you. You can’t get a word in edgewise, the way they start clambering over each other, arguing, but you raise your voice, make yourself heard. “I’m just… hey, I’m just down the street, I can manage. You guys seem like you need to go somewhere.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you’re just down the street then it’s not a problem.” Rafi’s voice is matter of fact, and with a grin he reaches for your arm. “Alejandro, get the other side.”</p>
<p>“Rafi, no offense, but, uh, let Eddie handle that. You and me together will make her even more lopsided.” Alejandro has a grin, bright at the not-so-subtle dig.</p>
<p>“Eres el peor,” the boy mutters, and with a roll of his eyes, he pulls back, hands lifting in surrender.</p>
<p>Eddie and Alejandro laugh, and so do you, a little chuckle, more for the tone than the actual words. Their banter makes you forget your shitty day, focusing on the group of three as they tussle for a place at your side.</p>
<p>“Where do you live?” Rafi asks, and you point down the street.</p>
<p>“I’m the… fourth building on the right?” you guess, wincing as your foot dragged along the ground. “Fucking, fucking shit, lift it, lift.”</p>
<p>“You’re not exactly helping,” Eddie shoots at you, and your eyes roll, the urge to yank away overruled by common sense.</p>
<p>“I’m trying. Look, you can just leave me alone. It’s not broken, and I’ll make it,” you point out, but all that earns is a scoff from Rafi Barba, an eye roll as he turns to face the three of you as you hobble along.</p>
<p>“Not happening. Look, we’re almost there. Then we’ll leave you be, and you can tell your family how you were rescued by los tres mosqueteros de Jerome Avenue.” His eyes are alight with a kind of mischief, and Alejandro snorts next to him.</p>
<p>“Does it count if one of ‘em is the problem?”</p>
<p>You chat the rest of the way. They bombard each other with questions, and a couple to you, most of which you can’t manage to answer as they tease each other and poke and prod. A couple of times you stumble, but they’re there, keeping you upright, and Rafi makes sure that you don’t fall face first onto concrete. He walks backwards, then forwards, then backwards again, always making sure that you can hear him as he talks about whatever crosses the mind of the three.</p>
<p>It seems like a lifetime, but no longer than a minute or two. You walk, forward, forward, forward, and then you’re up against your building, leaning against it after forcing Eddie and Alejandro to let you go.</p>
<p>“I’ve just gotta buzz my mom,” you tell them. “Trust me, you’re free to go, I can make it.”</p>
<p>“Not likely,” Rafi’s incredulous at the suggestion, but you just roll your eyes. “You can barely stand up straight.”</p>
<p>He’s firmly planted. Eddie and Alejandro look more ready to skedaddle, bouncing on their toes as the cold hits them. Rafi is just staring, and you find yourself meeting his gaze, lifting your chin. “Look, I know you feel obligated, but I don’t make a habit of showing strangers my exact address –“</p>
<p>“And I would contend we’re not strangers. Acquaintances at the very least, maybe even friends. We know each other’s names; we’ve been quite friendly.”  </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah? You know my name?”</p>
<p>The silence is deafening. That wins it. Because Rafi Barba, in all of his urgency, in all of their chatting, never once asked. None of them did. Which doesn’t hurt your feelings. It’s easy to pull away from people you don’t know, and you’d rather just make it up the rickety elevators in peace. Crawl into your bed and die from mortification and exhaustion.</p>
<p>You asked for help. Now the help was over.</p>
<p>“Look, you did your good deed for the day, I made it home,” you counter, “now please, can I get there on my own?”</p>
<p>Just then, the door opens. Your mom comes out, sees your swollen ankle, and that should be their cue.</p>
<p>“Oh, sweetie,” she hummed. “No more dancing for a while, huh?”</p>
<p>“Dancing?” Rafi asks, and he looks between you and your mother with curiosity. </p>
<p>“Nope, nothing,” you scramble to say. Those moments weren’t for anyone else, just the two of you. “Anyways, thanks so much, but I should really be getting upstairs, and… sleeping. Yes, sleeping. Okay, thanks again, bye!”</p>
<p>You turn to hobble away, hoping your mother will say goodbye and follow you. But instead, she just smiles at the boys and looks at each of them in turn, looking over their uniforms and identical grins, Eddie and Alex lingering back behind the real culprit.</p>
<p>“Thank you so much for bringing my girl home,” she tells them. Her smile is bright, almost incandescent. She has that way about her, your mother, the kind of face that everyone loves, the kind of laugh that everyone is drawn to. You wish you’d inherited that, instead of gangly limbs from a man you barely knew. “She always walks home alone, and it worries me every time.”</p>
<p>“Mom, they were nice and all, but they probably have lives,” you sigh out, and Eddie and Alex seem to agree. They already seem to be creeping away, but Rafi is stubbornly still. “Let them get home, get out of the cold.”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right, all right.” She reaches for you, wraps your arm around her shoulders, and you wince as it scrapes the floor again. “Thank you, boys.”</p>
<p>“We should get home, Barba,” Eddie calls out. “Tus padres estarán esperando, vamanos.”</p>
<p>Something passes across Rafi’s face. It’s quick, and dark, but it’s there, and he nods, his jaw clenching.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” you say again, and it’s a little more heartfelt, genuine. You even smile, a little, an effort to wash that sour look from his face. But you’re turning away, too, when you suddenly hear Rafi Barba call out to you.</p>
<p>“Your name?” he asks. “Just so I know what to yell next time we almost collide.”</p>
<p>“If he’s facing forward,” Eddie mutters to Alejandro, who you can hear snort and shove his toe against the sidewalk.</p>
<p>Your eyes roll, and you look over your shoulder at the boy. He waits, patiently, for the answer, even as Eddie and Alex start moseying down the sidewalk, and his smile is more a smirk, proud of himself when you give it to him, first and last.</p>
<p>He repeats it, gesturing to you and making sure he gets it right. And then he points to himself, his lips quirking again. “Rafael Barba.” He reaches for your hand, and when you hesitate, he raises a brow. Those eyes pierce you. “Not friends. But. Acquaintances?”</p>
<p>“Cute,” you retort, but you’re reaching to shake his hand without thinking about it, gloved hands warm in each other’s grip. “Deal.”</p>
<p>You don’t remember why the day was shitty anymore. Just that your ankle hurts, and you now know that his full name is Rafael.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>College is complicated. College is sitting and studying in your dorm room and then sitting and studying someplace else. College is hitting your head as you wake up because you have the top bunk. College is crying with frustration over chemistry.</p>
<p>But college is also realizing you really like what the psych professor talks about. College is finally making some real friends, and mellowing out because of it. Your lashing out fades as your anger does, the realization that people can be kind. College is getting a job and not minding that either, because you don’t mind serving others coffee if you get it for free.</p>
<p>So you end up liking Hudson, overall. It’s nice. College, the feel, the people, they’re nice. And you’re close enough to home that you and your mom end up still having a little bit of a dance party every so often. New York isn’t too much of a home, it never will be, but Hudson and your friends and your mom are, and it’s… it’s good, for once.</p>
<p>The holidays approach. Your first real break is coming up, but so are finals, and so your eyes are forcing significant figures back into your brain as you walk to your mom’s place. You had promised her you’d take a break to have dinner, but as your eyes cross with the rules you’re realizing it’s becoming less and less likely that you’ll be able to stop and talk much at all.</p>
<p>Your feet start tangling. You’ve gotten better at walking (only took you nineteen years to really master it), but you’re distracted and frustrated, and it’s not long before you’re tumbling forward, knees scraping the pavement, elbow smacking against the ground. You’re lucky the fall is buffered by your heavy winter gear, but your arm goes numb anyway as you nail your funny bone. Your notes go flying, your knowledge of significant figures scattering across the walkway.</p>
<p>“Fucking shit,” you hiss, holding your arm against your body. It’s not broken, but it hurts like a bitch, and you start crawling over towards where your notes fell to start gathering them up when a pair of gloved hands join your sole functioning one.</p>
<p>“Thank you so much,” you start saying, not really looking up in case the bitter winter wind takes away your notes before you can reach them. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, I just wasn’t watching my feet.”</p>
<p>“It’s really okay. Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and when you look up to see the kind of stranger who would help a poor student out on the street, you’re assaulted by startling green eyes.</p>
<p>Suddenly a memory comes back to you, of a wintry street and an ankle that twinges now in remembrance. You don’t know why you remember, but it’s there, three years past suddenly right in your rearview.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” he asks you, and you realize you’ve just been staring at him. But a name is struggling to come to the surface, and you blink a few times, still captured by those damn eyes.</p>
<p>“Uh,” you get out. Y’know. Intelligently. He just raises a brow.</p>
<p>“Do you… have these?” he tries, and you realize he’s been holding onto a stack of notes that he collected, holding them out to you.</p>
<p>It hits you, then, and you reach for the notes with such ferocity that he immediately drops his hand when you snag them. You remember.</p>
<p>“Rafael Barba,” you breathe out, blinking a bit.</p>
<p>A beat. “How do you know my name?” the stranger asks. But this guy isn’t exactly a stranger, and of course, he’s now seen you fall to the ground twice in one lifetime. Too many times, if the lifetime is asking you, but it’s not, and it’s still far from over.</p>
<p>You pull back, with your notes, absently trying to get them all right-side up. You’re seeing all of him now, kneeling on the ground, face red with the wind, and it’s definitely him. The slicked back hair, and he’s even wearing a sweater over a button up. Very Catholic school.</p>
<p>But all he knows is that a strange girl has been staring at him, openly, and just blurted his name out of nowhere. You scramble to explain yourself. “Sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, just – I – we’ve met,” you stammer out. “Briefly. We’re… acquaintances. I don’t even know how I remember, but you… you might remember my ankle better than me.”</p>
<p>You see him thinking. From furrowed with concern to suspicion. And then recognition, and he’s smirking and shaking his head, glancing around where the two of you are basically sitting on the concrete. He says your name, slowly, like he did that first time too long ago. “I was just thinking about how little things have changed,” he chuckles, and you smirk, shrugging. “Seems like I was right in more ways than one.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t think clumsiness goes away,” you admit, “and this time it wasn’t your fault, so you don’t have to walk me to my apartment if you don’t want to.”  </p>
<p>He laughs. It’s short, but bright, and you smile, cutting it with a wince as you slide the backpack on your shoulders. “Might have to, to make sure you stay on both feet.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure I can make it,” you assure him, but when you straighten out the elbow you injured, your face contorts, and he winces in sympathy. “I can walk this time, at least. No getting carried by los – los tres mos –“</p>
<p>“Los tres mosqueteros,” Rafael tells you. His voice is soft, and his eyes are ducking now, watching the sidewalk as the two of you start to stumble to your feet. He doesn’t say it with reverence. Is it… is it bitterness? “Well, solamente un mosquetero aqui, pero… I hope that’s enough.”</p>
<p>Self-deprecating. It makes your nose wrinkle. While college mellowed you out, it only seemed to harden Rafi. “More than,” you tell him. “But… I should be heading home. Don’t want my mom to think I bailed on her.”</p>
<p>“I can take those,” he offers, gesturing to your notes, the book you have. Never mind you have a backpack; he offers and you end up taking it. You don’t really know why at first, but as the two of you walk towards your apartment it starts to come into focus.</p>
<p>He’s grown into his voice, his attitude. He’s not just older, he’s grown, and you find yourself studying him, if only because when he talks it’s hard not to look away. He’s handsome, with those green eyes and firm voice and quick turn of his lips. The lift of his chin, as he listens, gives you a smile. But the smile feels flinty. Even after offering to carry your books, your notes, you realize it’s more out of manners than kindness. But he takes them, and you’re walking side by side for long enough that you gather some courage.</p>
<p>“School out of state, then? If you had to come back, for family,” you ask, to keep the conversation going, knowing that as you reach your door it’s over.</p>
<p>“Harvard,” he tells you, and your eyes widen at the tone. He says it with force, as if he has to keep reminding himself as much as he reminds other people. “I’m planning to go to Harvard law, too, after I take my LSAT this summer.”</p>
<p>“Same,” you shrug. He almost trips over his own feet at that, and when he turns to you with a raised brow you just smirk. “I’m fucking with you, obviously. Hudson. For psychology. Right now. We’ll see.”</p>
<p>You don’t plan on feeling bad about it. It’s what you could get, and you’re proud of it. But there’s something about standing next to a Harvard student that makes you get defensive, ducking your head. He has a little smirk, too, and you find yourself glaring.</p>
<p>“It’s what I could get, and that’s fine, you know. I just want to help people –“</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” he laughs, shaking his head, and there’s nothing mean in it. “Just… fucking with you.” It’s the hesitation that gets you, the little hiccup of years of repression, and you just snort.</p>
<p>“That’s right. Catholic boy. I remember,” The jab comes out without warning, and he just blushes a little. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”</p>
<p>His head is shaking again, and when he smirks it’s at you. “Trust me, I think my mother will know even if your lips are sealed.”</p>
<p>“Not worried about God?” you laugh, and he mimes glancing around the whole street.</p>
<p>“Trust me, my mother puts the fear of God into me without any help from the Almighty.”</p>
<p>And then you’re in. The conversation starts flowing more freely. He talks about his family. Talks about coming home, to see his mother, his grandmother. There’s something warm when he talks about the homemade holiday meals, the Christmas mass the group of them will attend. It’s just small talk, but you also know enough not to ask about Eddie and Alejandro, to keep walking with him, keep the topics light. He asks about your family, and you tell him it’s just you and Mom, and perhaps a Christmas dance party around the plastic tree.</p>
<p>“Christmas dance party?” It’s skeptical, but your shrug at him, smiling at the memories of years past.</p>
<p>“Family tradition. I dance, my mom laughs. In the end, we end up usually knocking off some ornaments, maybe upturning a tray of cookies.”</p>
<p>“The whole thing?” Skepticism turns to incredulity, and you snort.</p>
<p>“I have a list of casualties. Three trays of cookies, one pan of brownies, a very nice-looking angel. This isn’t even counting the stuff at New Year’s…“</p>
<p>Rafael’s head is shaking, but you’re just dissolving into giggles as the list expands. All at once, you’re telling him about the time you tripped over an armchair right into a perfectly fine plate of muffins on Christmas morning, and he’s either too polite or too horrified to stop you. But in the end, he laughs. At you, probably, but he’s smiling again, and there’s no putting himself down anymore. Just listening to you take your clumsiness in stride.</p>
<p>Tt’s nice. At least you think so. There are bits of laughter that echo down the street, yours and his, and as your door approaches you find yourself dreading it a little. You missed your friends, and this was… close to something.</p>
<p>“Well,” you say, when the two of you arrive. The door is firmly closed, to keep the cold out, and you reach for the buzzer, turning back to look at Rafael with a smile. He hands over your notes, and you ignore the twinge in your elbow to grip everything firmly. “Thanks. For the company. Not thinking about finals was worth the tumble.”</p>
<p>“I was… also glad for the distraction. It’s been a while since I’ve been home and...” He doesn’t elaborate any further, but his face looks a little pinched, and you nod. Family… friends. It’s complicated.</p>
<p>After a moment, though, he’s looking at you as the two of you hear the door click unlocked. “You’ll get through it, though. Finals. I know it,” he assures. “And then it’s just seven more after that. Trust me, I have three left. It gets better.” He’s watching you, as you rub your arm, and though his brow pinches again, he manages a little smile. “It was good to see you again. Glad I didn’t end up doing permanent damage.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know, future lawyer,” you tease. “Maybe once you get all rich and famous I’ll send something about damages your way. Remind you that I knew you when.”</p>
<p>He huffs out a little scoff, shaking his head. “Future psychologist, right? Don’t you want to practice what you’re going to preach? Forgiveness? Acceptance?”</p>
<p>“Where’s the fun in that? I’d rather humble you, Harvard boy.” When he scoffs again, it’s with a hand raised to you, turning back towards where you know his mother must live, the same direction he walked those years before.</p>
<p>As you move toward the door, pulling it open, you pause, looking back over your shoulder. He’s walking away, hands in his coat’s pockets, elbows shaking a little with the cold.</p>
<p>“Take care of yourself, Rafael,” you call out. “Happy holidays, too!”</p>
<p>Another wave, and he’s gone, and you find yourself thinking about those eyes a little later, distracting you from those significant figures you were so desperate to save.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Fuck grad school. Really.</p>
<p>You don’t know what possessed you, when you decided to go. Probably the same thing that possessed you to push to graduate a year early, and the same thing that encouraged you to decide on a doctorate at Fordham instead of a M.S. and moving on.</p>
<p>Masochism. Obviously.</p>
<p>But you’re stuck with it, and every three days you regret it. A new assignment, a long-ass reading, a book you want to throw out of your apartment’s window – it’s too much, and you don’t do enough, and pretty soon you’re drowning. On top of that working, so you and your mom can keep your apartment, buy her medication, and keep the world turning, things that start to feel impossible.</p>
<p>Does everyone feel like this? you want to scream in the world. Does every student after undergrad hate themselves?<br/>You know the answer is yes, but you wish you could hear it from someone besides yourself. Because your mom, bless her, refuses to let you quit, still taking time to dance with you when you need it.</p>
<p>You just don’t want to fail. You can’t fail. So you keep pushing, and find yourself cooped up in libraries, in coffee shops, wherever-the-fuck will take you, doing what you can as long as you can, as much as you can.</p>
<p>There are places you end up frequenting, in the search for a place to get work done, and end up, like most grad students, in a coffee shop. The dim lighting sometimes hurts once you hit your page limit, but the coffee is cheap and strong, and they let you linger in a corner booth with your books all spread out on the table. It’s worth the carpal tunnel, the edges of the tabletop digging into your wrist, because you get shit done.</p>
<p>So it comes as a surprise that your safe haven, your perfect locale, is occupied by Rafael Barba.</p>
<p>At first you don’t even recognize him. When you first notice him, after all, he’s already sitting down, and you can’t see his face. He just looks like another student, after all, bent forward and buried in a book that is even bigger than yours. But when he stands to go get another coffee, and you catch sight of him, it’s immediate.</p>
<p>Of course, he doesn’t see you. Just goes back, sits down with a giant mug, and keeps chugging along.</p>
<p>You keep your smile to yourself, look down at the pages you’ve lost your place in and do your best to get back on track, but now you’re distracted, and Rafael is still just there. It would’ve been less shocking, maybe, if you had perhaps known he’d be in town? But now you’re just thinking about the last time you saw him, the way he laughed, smiled at you before he left…</p>
<p>Oh, fuck it. You just think he’s handsome.</p>
<p>But… it’s been a few years. There’s no way he remembers you, confirmed by the way you stand, to go get another coffee, and he doesn’t even glance up.</p>
<p>So you resolve yourself to doing nothing, acting on nothing. Besides, you have actual work to do, and the third cup of coffee should probably be your last before you’re bouncing off of the walls. But when you turn around, to head back to your seat, you definitely make an impression on Rafael Barba, and the impression is the massive stain on the front of his shirt.</p>
<p>“Oh, my god,” you cry out, and he can’t say anything, the two of you just staring at the mess. “I’m – I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you – oh, god, your shirt.”</p>
<p>“It’s… okay,” he sighs, and he seems to be in just as much shock. You move to grab some napkins from a table. His voice is dry, when he speaks again. “Isn’t a holiday back in the Bronx without some kind of disaster.”</p>
<p>You wince at the wording, but keep blotting, and then your handful of dirty napkins is useless. You pull back, and you think you’ve actually made it worse, but Rafael is just smirking at you.</p>
<p>“I think… it’s beyond help. But thank you for trying.”</p>
<p>The napkins hang limp from your hands. You feel like an idiot, but Rafael just keeps that smirk as you go to throw them away and turn back. When you do, he’s still standing there.</p>
<p>“I didn’t burn you, did I?” you ask him. “That was a fresh cup, I –“</p>
<p>“Really, it’s fine. A shirt. I’ll survive.”</p>
<p>He looks even better up close. Eyes bright, playful, smart. He seems to look you over with an appraising eye, and you don’t know if you measure up but you hope you do. There’s no hint of remembering, but there’s something, and you glance over at your table.</p>
<p>“Well. I owe you,” you say. “For the shirt, at the very least. How much is your dry cleaning? I have some cash.” </p>
<p>He scoffs, and you’re thrown back to high school, that same scoff telling you that you can’t possibly stumble home alone. “No, that’s not going to happen. You’re not paying for my dry cleaning.”</p>
<p>“Then something,” you say.</p>
<p>He takes a moment. Looks over you. Eyes narrow as he turns to your table, the papers fluttering in the heater’s breeze.</p>
<p>“Coffee? We both look like we can use a break.” And then he smiles, and you’re swooning.</p>
<p>He ends up sitting at your table, brings his book over to stack on top of one of yours. The two of you get to chatting, just small talk, and about halfway through your coffees it seems to click with him.</p>
<p>“Do I – have we met before?”</p>
<p>You just chuckle, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, yes. This is not the first time I’ve stumbled in front of you.”</p>
<p>His eyes widen. “I couldn’t place you, I thought I was –“</p>
<p>“Crazy? No. It’s just been… years. And each time, somehow, I manage to take a spill.”</p>
<p>“Clumsy, then?” he asks, teasing, and you snort.</p>
<p>“I wish I could say you just catch me at bad times, but. Yeah. I’m a certifiable mess.”</p>
<p>He laughs, and you chuckle, and the two of you keep talking the hour away. By the time you’re done with your coffee you’ve ordered a pastry, too, and for some reason you keep doubting the fact that he’s been looking at you with bright eyes the whole time.</p>
<p>But when the meal is done, you end up packing up your books, getting ready to leave. You say it’s because you should be getting home, but really it’s because you think if you stay there in the booth any longer, you’ll do something crazy, like ask him out. But instead of letting you go, he offers to walk with you, and the two of you leave the shop together.</p>
<p>“So, you stuck around, huh?” he asks, and you can’t help but notice the tone of his voice. “You enjoy the Bronx that much?”</p>
<p>“I figured Hudson U was enough distance between me and my mom. Fordham had the program I wanted, plus, I could stay back and take care of her.”</p>
<p>He huffs a little laugh. Something about it rankles you, but you put it behind you, and the two of you keep walking.</p>
<p>After that, you start to notice other things. Like that fact that he doesn’t stop bringing up Harvard. At first, you deal with it, because yes, it is a big deal. A kid from the Bronx, ending up at Harvard Law? But he won’t, and can’t, shut up about it, and it makes you antsy.</p>
<p>Other ways, too. Talking about Boston like it’s the be-all, end-all. Mentioning how if he came back to work, he’d settle in Manhattan, not back home.</p>
<p>“I want to become a judge, at some point, and Manhattan’s the best way to get there,” he explains, and you nod, but it keeps… bugging you.</p>
<p>“I’m sure,” you concede. “But I don’t know. I like it here. The people, the town.”</p>
<p>When he scoffs, it’s almost cruel, and your heart aches at the way he dismisses it, all with a hand wave. “Yeah, but, Hudson isn’t doing anyone any favors. You should try to head out, spread your wings. Manhattan’s always in need of psychologists.”</p>
<p>Maybe it’s supposed to be nice, some advice. Yet, advice you didn’t ask for, and to you, all it says is that all he can remember about you is the unfortunate undergrad you went to. It infuriates you, makes you halt walking, your bag with all of your books jostling against your back.</p>
<p>“Oh, my god. You truly think you’re doing me a favor just by talking to me, don’t you?” you say, and he just rolls his eyes at you. </p>
<p>“Of course not, that’s not what I meant.” But it’s the final straw, and no longer does Rafael Barba look handsome. He just looks like an ass.</p>
<p>Part of it is that you’re tired, stressed, overwhelmed. Talking instead of studying. But all you can focus on is his tone, his act. “You think you’re so much better than me. What, because you… you ‘got out of here?’ Out of shitty apartments and neighborhoods, and you can already see the big bucks?” you sigh, and Rafael’s brow only raises at you, looking down his nose at you like that’s how they’re trained at Harvard Law. Maybe they are – an image comes to mind of students preparing to pass the bar by practicing evil smirks and sharp looks.</p>
<p>“Look, I had to fight to get to where I am now, and I’m always fighting to stay there, you understand? I come home to visit, and I’m just saying that you could be wherever you wanted to be,” he tries, but you’re past rational thought. “Come on, don’t you want to get out?” <br/>“Barba, this is where I want to be,” you tell him, but when he raises his brow, you put your hands up in surrender. In the end, you’re too exhausted to be truly angry at him. You simply shake your head and begin the long trek back to your apartment, the glory of the coffee shop well behind you.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” he asks, and you just shrug one shoulder as you walk away, turning to look at him over your shoulder. There’s a stinging in your eyes, but you tell yourself it’s just the bite of the wind.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to let you bully me, Rafael. I got enough of that in high school. If you want me to pay for your dry cleaning, or your shoes, I’ll do it, but I won’t let the payment of some spilled coffee be me spending time as your punching bag.”</p>
<p>“Bullying you? So, I’m bullying you now?” It’s incredulous, his question. </p>
<p>You turn on your heel to face him.</p>
<p>“Harvard isn’t an excuse,” you snap. “Just because you got to go off and do great things doesn’t mean the people who stay here are somehow lesser. Like we’re not accomplishing anything. And right now, you’re really acting like it.”</p>
<p>A beat.</p>
<p>“And it’s Fordham, now, asshole. At least get it right.”  </p>
<p>You don’t wait around to hear his response. You’re walking off, and the only thing you hear is the wind whipping around you.</p>
<p>The ride back is lonely and the scent of coffee has gone rancid. It just feels like another slap in the face, a reminder that no matter how hard you work there will always be something, someone. You’re discouraged, more than a little. When you make it back to the apartment you share with your mother, you’re on the wrong side of miserable, and your reading that you’re already behind on gets more than a little neglected as you choose to watch something on TV, a warm cup of cocoa instead of the coffee you craved.</p>
<p>But it’s halfway through your own pity party that the way Rafael Barba looked at you makes your mouth curl into a sneer, and about two-thirds through the second movie that you realize you’ve wasted the day. Horrifying. All over a man who did nothing but look down at you, for being home, still.</p>
<p>A fire you needed, and looked for, when you started grad school. Besides helping people, why else did you want a doctorate? What was going to push you to getting that damn Ph.D. and across the finish line?</p>
<p>In the end, it’s the feeling of squirming under Rafael Barba’s gaze. Harvard Law or not, the fucker shouldn’t have looked at you like that. Shouldn’t have talked to you like that. And by the time you’re stomping over to your books and opening it with a vengeance, you’ve made a deal with yourself that no one will ever talk to you like that ever again.</p>
<p>Fuck Rafael Barba. He could have his juris whatever, settle in Boston or Manhattan. You were getting a practice, to help the people in your borough, and one of these days he’d have to look at you and refer to you as doctor who got her degree from Fordham whether he wanted to or not.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>You should’ve gone with the slacks. The slacks don’t have a hem that needs to be tugged down every twenty seconds, that’s for sure, and the feeling of your skirt’s hem is all you can focus on. The way it slides up as you hustle to the elevator, the way it rides as you sit on the subway. By the time you get to where you’re going, you’re going crazy, your hair frizzing with the energy.</p>
<p>Not to mention, it’s fucking cold while you wait, your knee bouncing as you sit in an endless hallway, waiting for them to call your name.  </p>
<p>But you look better in the skirt. You feel better in the skirt, you rock the skirt, and for an oral defense you want to feel your best, so. It’s the skirt. The skirt, and those heels with a splash of color, and when you leave and get a good distance from the clear glass door you get to pump your fist and dance in the skirt.</p>
<p>You did it.</p>
<p>You’re going to be a doctor. You’re going to be a psychologist. Someone’s going to meet you, for the first time, and call you by your title, and come to you for help.</p>
<p>And you’ll be able to help them. On your own. Terrifying, but it gives you a rush, the strength of which makes your head spin, makes your eyes cross just a little. Your fingers move to text your boss, your mother.</p>
<p>“I did it.”</p>
<p>You whisper it to yourself the whole way back. All that’s left is the rest of your internship, and then you’re home free. You’re done. You’re a doctor.</p>
<p>“The worst part is over,” Dr. Olivet reminds you when you make it back to her offices, “but there’s still work to be done.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” you tell her, lifting your hands. “I still have to finish my work here, and there’s, you know, getting a job…”</p>
<p>“But you did it.” Her voice is warm, and you’re not afraid to give another little dance, and she obliges you with a hug.</p>
<p>It’s sweet. It’s more than sweet, and your eyes are brimming with tears. God, you have to call your mom. A text isn’t enough, you have to tell her everything –</p>
<p>A hand reaches out to stop you with a gentle touch on your arm. You hadn’t even realized you were talking out loud, but thankfully you’re done in an instant. “You can call her on the drive. We have a full day, then the Brooklyn DA’s office.”</p>
<p>The thought makes you wince. “Two birds with one stone, hopefully?” you ask her, but she just shakes her head, the excitement from the morning bleeding into preemptive exhaustion in the blink of an eye.</p>
<p>Long day is right, when it comes to the law. There’s never been a time when cops have been your biggest fans, but it seems the tensions are always high with them. Nowadays, at least with Olivet, the two of you prefer to go straight to the D.A., when he calls, simply because at least as an expert witness, there’s some respect.</p>
<p>Some. But it’s there.</p>
<p>But not always.</p>
<p>So, the two of you make the journey to Brooklyn, a forty-minute commute from Manhattan, and by the time you show up at the Kings County D.A.’s office, you’re already exhausted. The D.A.s that Olivet consult with are nice enough, you suppose, for lawyers, but only because they have to be. It’s part of the position, and if they want to be re-elected, they don’t want a reputation of being hard to work with. But the A.D.A.s tend to sprint first, ask too many questions later, and every moment is a battle.</p>
<p>But when you get there, head up to the office that Olivet was told to go, there’s a pair of striking green eyes that lift from their spot on a stack of files to meet yours, widening when yours do. They’re matched with a pale lavender tie, and a grey ensemble that compliments him nicely. You suppose it’s made for that, considering how it’s tailored.</p>
<p>The room isn’t posh. The opposite, in fact, a couple of chairs in front of a desk, a table to the side with various books to add onto the bookcase full of them. But there’s flair, and clutter in equal spades. It feels worked in, maybe even lived in, judging by the only other piece of furniture being a couch behind you.</p>
<p>It’s been a long time since high school and wintry streets in the Bronx, that’s for sure, for you and for Rafael Barba.</p>
<p>He stands when the two of you step into the room, and moves around the desk. You watch and wonder what he remembers from the last time you stumbled into each other, but his body language doesn’t betray a whole lot besides his exhaustion. You wonder if he can see the same in you, or if the tapping of your finger against your side is informing him just what you think of him. The great lawyer from Boston, here instead of the Bronx. Never going back home, just like he wanted.</p>
<p>His jacket is off, and you can see the vest and slacks of a three-piece suit as he moves to greet you, sleeves rolled up, a couple of blinks as he takes the two of you in.</p>
<p>“Mr. Barba,” Olivet says politely, reaching out her hand. “You’re the A.D.A. we’re working with, then?”</p>
<p>“Doctor.” His voice is formal, and when he shakes it, there’s a quick one-two before he releases, turning to you without hesitation. “Yes, I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity to meet officially. Rafael Barba, thanks for coming.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Barba,” you greet him, when he turns to you, and when the two of you shake there’s a twitch. “It’s a... pleasure.”</p>
<p>How’re you doing, Harvard boy? Still looking down your nose? is what you want to say, what you remember from him, but you manage a little self-control. You think he reads your mind, and it makes him nod.</p>
<p>“The pleasure’s mine,” he returns. So, he does recognize you, because the familiarity has to the be the unexpected warmth you hear. Or maybe amusement, because your last attempt at friendliness was resolved with little more than chills in the air. “Intern for what exactly?”</p>
<p>There’s a spark in his eyes, and you find yourself lifting your chin. No stumbling at this meeting, just two kids from the Bronx, all grown up. God forbid he thinks for a moment that you ran away and gave up. “For my doctoral courses at Fordham. In about four months, I’ll be a clinical psychologist like Dr. Olivet. She’s who I’ve been training under.”</p>
<p>You dare him to say something. To make a dig. </p>
<p>“Fascinating.” It’s what he settles on. He seems actually impressed,, when he looks at you, and you try to ignore the way his smile makes your heart pound. It’s just because he’s a handsome man in a three-piece suit and smiling, not because he’s Rafael Barba. After all, Rafael Barba was pretty sure you’d never get out of the Bronx, and downright rude because of it. “Shall we get started, then? I want to know everything I can about this guy.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Olivet returns, and the three of you get situated to get to work.</p>
<p>It’s long. It’s exhausting. By the end of the day, your head is pounding, and Olivet and Barba have exchanged enough words to fill a novel, trying to argue the benefits and the harm of taking this particular offender to trial. He wants to get an answer to his boss by the end of the day, and your boss is not one to make it easy for ease’s sake. You had taken the role of notator, going through the files offered and marking anything for Elizabeth, and the back and forth had made you dizzy. After all, after everything, Rafael Barba was a great lawyer, a fantastic prosecutor, according to a Google search during a break. Leave it to him to make your eyes blur.</p>
<p>“The precedent is set for it,” Barba repeats, for the third time. He’s gone from sitting, to pacing, to sitting again, his eyes closed as he runs a hand through his hair. “And the defense is going to argue that his illness is an excuse for his behavior.”</p>
<p>“I know what the precedent says,” Olivet returns, for the third time. “But I also know that while diagnoses are never an excuse for a behavior, they can explain one. It’s what the defense will argue. His impulse control without his medication – which he has a right to refuse – is significantly lowered –“</p>
<p>“But not completely. Mr. Nelson understands what he did was wrong, he basically confessed –“</p>
<p>Your eyes roll, and you find yourself speaking before you can think. “In an interrogation room in which his counsel, which he did not waive, was not present. Just because he has a diagnosis in the DSM-V does not make him any less deserving of a proper interrogation.”</p>
<p>The two of them turn to look at you, Olivet with a smile, Barba with a scowl. His face pinches as his eyes scan you, and you just stare back.</p>
<p>He may be where he belongs, in a three-piece suit, but you’re where you need to be, too. And he needs to make sure he understands that, because the last thing you’re gonna let him do is underestimate you again.  </p>
<p>“No one is saying that,” Barba starts, but you just raise a brow at him.</p>
<p>“If I’m looking at these transcripts correctly, something tells me the cops themselves said that. Look, Mr. Barba, Dr. Olivet and I might not be this man’s direct health care providers, but we still have a duty to advocate for him.” You glance over at your boss, and her hand is covering her mouth, but you see the edges of a smile in her tired eyes. “If I were a doctor, and an expert for the other side, I would make sure my team knew the violations that occurred in that room.”</p>
<p>The room is silent. When Barba looks at the doctor, she just drops her hand, the smile replaced with a somewhat-serious look that threatened an I-told-you-so. “I’d be saying the same thing. She’s right.”</p>
<p>A new energy flashes between the two of you, and when Barba contemplates his options, his lips a little pursed, it’s with you staring him down. It’s a sparring match, your gazes, and it’s a firm draw. That alone seems to perturb Rafael enough for him to relent, just a little. “I’ll worry about the… legality of the confession,” he sighs out. His pages flick to a different section, and he glances over it. “We’re all tired here, so I’ll wrap, but I need to know if he’s competent for the stand without his medication. That’ll be the last thing we cover today.”</p>
<p>“If he’s not a danger to himself or others, then getting him to take it will be difficult legally,” Olivet reminded him. “But. I’ll do an evaluation. See what we can determine while he’s off.”  </p>
<p>Another time, another date is set, for the evaluation. You and Dr. Olivet start getting ready to go, and the polite farewells are given and gone.</p>
<p>But before you leave, and the handshakes are made, Rafael looks you over, from head to toe. It’s quick, but you catch it, and it’s before he turns to Dr. Olivet and nods.  </p>
<p>“I’ll be seeing both of you, then? Day after tomorrow?”</p>
<p>If it makes your cheeks flush, you don’t mention it, especially not when he glances back at you again, gives you another handshake with a firm squeeze.</p>
<p>“Both of us,” you affirm, inform, and then you’re gone, Rafael Barba’s office behind you, something else entirely in front.</p>
<p>“You know, he never asked you your name, when we went in,” Olivet notes, on the ride back. It’s mild, nothing really there, but the two of you have worked together long enough that you know there’s a million unasked questions down that rabbit hole.</p>
<p>Your eyes don’t leave the windshield. “Oh, yeah. Uh, we lived on the same street. He – him and his friends, really – they almost broke my ankle, my sophomore year of high school.”</p>
<p>A hum from her makes you break from your trance, and you see the edges of her lips curl up. “No, no,” you clarify. “It wasn’t like that, it was never like that. I’ve only seen him, what, three times over the years? He’s just someone I see every so often. New York is the smallest city in the world, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Will this be a problem?” she asks next. You find your cheeks flaring again, turning from the windshield to your own window.</p>
<p>“Nothing there for it to be. Last time didn’t end so well, but… we’re past that. We’re adults.”</p>
<p>Right?</p>
<p>When she laughs, it’s a gentle prod in the direction you were already going, nothing more than fuel to the fire that you barely understood was being lit.</p>
<p>“Well, I know for sure he didn’t shake my hand twice, and I’m the one who’s going to be on the stand for him if this goes to trial. Maybe last time didn’t end as poorly as you thought.”</p>
<p>You refuse to think about it, though. For a little while. After all, it’s work that has to be done, and you’re not across the finish line, yet, so you show up prompt and on time two days later to assist Dr. Olivet with her evaluation and the conclusions that are inevitably drawn. You don’t end up coming until the end of the workday, and when you’re finished it’s well into evening.</p>
<p>“He’s unaware that what he said in the interrogation room amounted to a confession,” she tells Barba, afterwards. After watching the whole thing, the way that you and Olivet had slowly gained trust and revealed the truth, the clench of his jaw is mighty. “There’s no way he gave it willingly.”</p>
<p>“You’re certain?” When he turns to look, it’s at both of you, equally, his eyes flicking back and forth before looking back into the room where you had left him. His voice sounds exhausted, and for a moment you feel pity for him.</p>
<p>You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with a hand wave. “Don’t bother. I know the answer.” His frustration is apparent, and you find yourself sharing a glance with Dr. Olivet before nodding. “So, we have nothing.”</p>
<p>“Nothing except someone who needs to return home to his family,” you tell him, and his shoulders slump. It’s not meant to be a jab, but when he looks at you again there’s something in his eyes that tells you he takes it as such.</p>
<p>“Right. Of course. I’ll talk to the captain.” He sounds so worn, and you almost feel sorry for him.Your smile is sympathetic, but he’s not really looking at you. There’s something that tells you to walk away, another part that insists you stay, figure this man out.</p>
<p>“Mr. Barba?” Dr. Olivet murmurs. “I’ll get a full write-up of what I saw here to you tomorrow, but we really should be going now.”</p>
<p>And that makes him straighten, his manners coming back to him as he gestures towards the door. “Right, yes, of course. Thank you so much for your help, Dr. Olivet. Miss Y/L/N.”</p>
<p>“Not a problem,” you say, and the two of you part. No fanfare. No nothing. Just. Done.</p>
<p>You don’t realize how distracted you are until you’re standing by Dr. Olivet’s car, ready to take the two of you back to her office, where you can return to the Bronx.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” she asks you, and you realize you’ve been fingering the handle for a minute, as she rummages for her keys.</p>
<p>“Yeah, just. Thinking.”</p>
<p>After another minute, Olivet curses. “I must’ve left them inside. Do you mind if we head back in?” When there’s no protest, the two of you walk quickly to get out of the cold, and you find yourself hoping against hope that Rafael Barba is still in there, that there’s something more you can say.</p>
<p>Your head is down, your eyes are closed to protect from the wind. So you don’t see the door, nor notice when it swings out. Neither does the other person behind it, and you feel the edge of it nail you in the forehead.</p>
<p>You’re stunned, stumbling backwards. Your fingers come up to press on where the door hit you, and the person behind the door is muttering curses. A couple of hands come to steady you, and luckily there’s no blood on your hand when you pull it away.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and you have to blink to let the face focus.</p>
<p>“Just when I thought there’d be no stumbling around this time,” you groan, and Barba’s small smile to you is brimming with concern.</p>
<p>“Completely my fault,” he sighs. “Are you okay?” You’re still blinking, but the dots connect, and you realize that Rafael Barba is the one who smacked your head.</p>
<p>Goddammit. And you just starting to like the guy again.</p>
<p>“I got a door to the face, I’ve been better. Fuck, I’ve gotta be careful what I wish for,” you groan.</p>
<p>“Let’s get you to a chair,” Olivet whispers, and the stars you’ll still seeing start to fade as you stumble to a seat in the entryway of the precinct. “Mr. Barba, do you mind staying here with her? I think I left my keys upstairs, and I need them to take her home.”</p>
<p>“Doc, you don’t have to do that,” you tell her, but the lights in the place are killing your eyes. Quickest concussion you’ve ever gotten, you assume, and Barba indeed tells her that he’s got you. Heels click away, toward the elevator, and even the ding makes you wince.</p>
<p>There’s silence, for a few moments. Quiet, as you hold your head in your hand. After a few moments, you’ve realized Barba’s left and returned, holding out a cold water bottle to you.</p>
<p>“Another thing I owe you for?” you ask him, and you must be imagining his wince as you hold it up to your forehead.</p>
<p>“I think by this point we’ve come full circle,” Rafael tells you. “I’m truly sorry, I just didn’t see you when I pushed the door open.”</p>
<p>A brow raised in disbelief, and you tilt your head up so he can see your scorn. “Aren’t the doors clear?”</p>
<p>“My phone,” he offers, and you scoff.</p>
<p>There’s silence again. His shoes are tapping against the tiled floor, and you switch hands as condensation drips down your arm. It sends a chill through you.</p>
<p>“Do you… need my coat?” he asks, and you can’t help but raise a brow at him again.</p>
<p>“I have my own coat,” you tell him, bluntly, and it almost looks like… wait.</p>
<p>Is he blushing?</p>
<p>“I know, just… do you – do you need another one?”</p>
<p>So. This is the great Harvard graduate Rafael Barba, stumbling over his words, offering you a coat. If anything told you he remembered what happened way back when, and felt bad about it, it was that. You’re chuckling a little now, the anger passing into disbelief.</p>
<p>“How bad does your head hurt?” he asks, horrified, but you just keep laughing, dropping the water bottle and leaning back in your seat.</p>
<p>It’s a full-on cackle right now. “You’re telling me this isn’t hilarious?” you ask him. Gesturing between the two of you, the bottle in your hand, the offer of the extra coat. “Every time we meet, something goes horribly wrong, doesn’t it? We can’t just have a coffee, I have to spill it on you. We can’t just catch up, I have to vow vengeance.”</p>
<p>He raises a brow at that, but you wave him off. “I don’t know. I guess I’m telling you that maybe this is what we’re meant to be, Barba. Bad luck for each other.”</p>
<p>Rafael murmurs something, in Spanish. Repeats it, even, but you can’t catch it.</p>
<p>“What?” you finally ask, and he looks at the water bottle next to you and shakes his head.</p>
<p>“I’m saying that’s not true. You’re not bad luck. You… helped me.”</p>
<p>It’s your turn to raise your brow, and you have a feeling if you knew him a little more, it’d be a perpetual expression. But he keeps plowing forward. “You know, when you walked away, last time? I watched you the whole way down the block. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you… said I was using Harvard as an excuse.”</p>
<p>He leans back. Tilts his chin up, and you find yourself watching the line of him. He seems to sink into the seat like it’s the first time he’s sat for a week.</p>
<p>“Excuse to do what, I didn’t know. So I tried to ignore it, and then… it just kept… sitting in the back of my head, the sight of you, looking at me –“ He cuts himself off, and you watch him sit up again, rest his elbows on his knees.</p>
<p>“What?” You prod him, move your knee to hit his, and he sighs, both hands over his face.</p>
<p>“You were right. Harvard was my excuse. It was a way out, but I forgot home on the way. Forgot my mother, in everything, my grandmother. Took steps away from them, and ended up losing sight of myself.”</p>
<p>All of that because of what you said? Something twists inside of you, and you shake your head, lifting the bottle back up to where a good bruise is forming. “You don’t have to feel guilty for working, Rafael,” you murmur to him. “For having a dream. I saw you, and I – I saw a guy who got it all, and I took my frustrations out on you. I’m sorry, for making you think that going out and accomplishing what you have means you’re not – not, y’know. You. I barely know you, for fuck’s sake.”</p>
<p>The curse makes his lips twitch, but he doesn’t look away. “But you never lost sight of home. You were always right there, where you needed to be,” he urges, and you shake your head.</p>
<p>“And that’s me. I love home. I love being home. But maybe you needed to get out. I don’t know your life,” you laugh. “I would love to, but I don’t and… and maybe you needed to step away from… family, from friends, to find yourself. Look at you, you’re an A.D.A. in Kings County. I know you’ve got headlines already. That’s just who you seem to be. You’re the Harvard boy. Don’t feel guilty about that on my account, it’s a big accomplishment.”</p>
<p>A pause.</p>
<p>“But the Bronx isn’t so bad, if you ever wanted to journey back every so often. Not a bad thing to remind yourself where you came from.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think I can forget,” Rafael admits. “Es en mi sangre, just like being a lawyer is.”</p>
<p>Then he smirks. “Plus, those pants still have a stain right on the hem. I keep meaning to throw them out.”</p>
<p>You snort, loud, and then shift to face him. It’s uncomfortable, the little bench the two of you are on, but the position is worth it. “Seems like you’re investing in good-fitting suits. Might be time.”</p>
<p>Olivet is taking forever, it feels like, but you don’t mind. This has been good, a resolution to things, and you don’t really want it to end. Even if it means that you can get home and nurse your head.</p>
<p>“You know, you’re the one who got me through my first year of my Ph.D.,” you blurt out. “After our last meeting I vowed you’d call me doctor. That’s what I meant… by vow vengeance.”</p>
<p>“So you…”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I guess that means you’re good luck, huh?”</p>
<p>He’s agape. “You pushed through grad school out of spite for me?”</p>
<p>“Yup.” The ‘p’ pops in your mouth, and his eyes flicker down to your mouth before he can stop himself.</p>
<p>And then, there’s a beat. And then he’s laughing. His laugh, when it’s light, and free, is contagious, for sure.  Shaking his head, running a hand through gelled hair. When he pulls it away, the mess makes it look softer, and you get the sudden urge to run fingers through it.</p>
<p>Damn concussions.</p>
<p>You have enough sense not to mention the craving. You just smile, and drop the water bottle in favor of shoving a hand towards him for a good shake.</p>
<p>He looks at your hand. It’s offered to him in a symbol of peace, but he looks so skeptical still, as if you’ll call him out on not calling home every now and again.</p>
<p>“Since I’m not your bad luck, then. Friends?”</p>
<p>There’s no hesitation. He’s grabbing your hand, firm and warm, and the one-two shake seals the deal.</p>
<p>“Friends,” he concedes, and the two of you sit on that damn bench, the silence more than a little comfortable.</p>
<p>His coat does end up around your shoulders, eventually. It’s nice, another layer of warmth with the windows to your back. It seems silly, but it feels like a shield, a layer of protection.</p>
<p>Olivet comes down eventually. She doesn’t comment on the second coat, but you see her head tilt a little as you stand, hand it back to him.</p>
<p>“You know where to find me, if you’re ever in town,” you tell him, and he nods.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you around, Miss Y/L/N.”</p>
<p>Your grin stretches across your face. It hurts your head, a little, but it’s worth it. “You’ll call me doctor, one day. Next time one of us almost kills the other.”</p>
<p>His smile back is warm. “I have no doubt.”</p>
<p>When you and Olivet leave, she’s just humming a little. You don’t say anything, but when the two of you get in her car, she pulls her keys from the depths of her purse, starts the engine. You realized that you didn’t see them in her hand when she left the elevator, and the dots connect even with the way your brain has been rattled.</p>
<p>The sight makes your eyes widen. “Were they –“</p>
<p>She laughs now. “Oh, you know things like that. Not a problem, we’ll just take you home now.”</p>
<p>“Now?” Your voice is cracking a little with the indignation.</p>
<p>“Now. If we hurry, I’m sure your dinner will still be warm.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Rafael watches as Liv’s voice gently soothes the woman, her eyes flicking back and forth between the Lietenant and Carisi. There’s hesitation in her statement, the kind that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.</p>
<p>When the two of them leave the interrogation room, he’s clear, or as clear as he can be. “She just confessed to murder, and right now that’s all the D.A. is going to see.”</p>
<p>Carisi’s response isn’t exactly friendly, but Barba looks up at the detective steadily, trying not to let his eyes roll. “You’re telling me you don’t believe her?”</p>
<p>“I’m saying that we’ve already had two victims recant their statements, for one reason or another. Their unwillingness to testify against Mr. Jones gives us very little in terms of evidence,” he sighs out. There’s a weariness as he looks at the woman, moving to lean against the glass and watch as she lays on the couch to rest. He wants to do the same, sometimes. Let his exhaustion take over. “I want to know what she knows about the situation, what she thinks. Otherwise, it’s a cut and dry case, and she gets locked away.”</p>
<p>“But she came to us, Barba,” Liv offers, looking at him with those pleading eyes of hers. They know how to sink right into his soul, and he ducks his gaze for a moment to collect himself. He has no time for being tired, and there’s something infectious about her conviction. But he needs more than a detective’s gut instinct and a lieutenant’s insistence. “We can’t just let her sink. She doesn’t belong in Rikers, she needs help.”</p>
<p>There’s a long silence, and Rafael finds himself sipping from a cup of coffee that has long gone cold. It’s Carisi that speaks up, those classes at Fordham law behind him. “What about a psychiatric evaluation? If an expert can sign off on her testimony, perhaps back up the fact that she was indeed abused, then as a battered woman…”</p>
<p>“Fordham law strikes again,” Barba quips, and then winces at his next sip. Such a shame the precinct couldn’t afford better coffee. Or more skilled coffee makers. “I can see who the D.A.’s office has lined up for those kinds of calls.” He looks between the two cops. “I don’t usually do the defense’s job for them, but this…”</p>
<p>“Is different.” Liv fills in the blanks, and he offers a small smile to her as he moves to the door. “I think we’re rubbing off on you, Barba.”</p>
<p>“God help us all,” he throws back, and her and Carisi’s chuckles are what leave him as he pulls out his phone.</p>
<p>The calls are straightforward. First to Carmen, who finds the list of names and numbers, and then to those names from his desk, seeing who is available as soon as possible for a psychiatric workup. There are options that she trims down, out of the goodness of her heart, leaving him with about ten that he can choose from.</p>
<p>But when he gets the list of names, there’s one name that stands out. One that reminds him of smiles shared across a cup of coffee and a pastry, one that makes him think of Catholic school uniforms and twisted ankles. One that makes nostalgia swirl in his gut. Or is that longing? Either way, it makes his lips purse.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s because in those moments, there were bright spots. Light in days and years that seemed to blur with a lot of struggle.</p>
<p>Or maybe it’s because he’s being dramatic. Either way.</p>
<p>He picks up his phone, prepared just for a consult. Nothing to yearn for, certainly. But he pretends not to notice when he looks up your office and gets a thrill when it’s in Manhattan, or swallow tightly when a photo appears on your website, and your eyes seem to gaze into his.</p>
<p>You’ve made a name for yourself. Any competent A.D.A. would feel comfortable with you in their corner. His fingers fly across his keyboard, looking into cases, finding what you’ve done. Your doctorate from Fordham is only the beginning, and he’s surprised he hasn’t seen you at charity events with all of the credits next to your name. Three years into practice, and he sees you headlining research into veteran populations, starting funds for LGBTQ+ counseling, lighting a fire in your community.</p>
<p>Any A.D.A. would choose you. Never mind the other names.</p>
<p>Yours ends up being the first number he dials. It rings twice, three times. Nothing yet, and his pen is spinning in his fingers. Four times, five times, and for a moment he thinks he’ll just have to try the number at the top of the list –</p>
<p>“Dr. Y/L/N’s office,” a voice answers. “How can I help you?”</p>
<p>It’s not you. It’s a secretary, or a receptionist, but her voice is kind enough. “Yes, is Dr. Y/L/N in? I’m calling about a consultation for the Manhattan District Attorney’s office.”</p>
<p>The little hum that the receptionist gives is… uncertain. “Unfortunately, she’s in with a patient. Can I take a message?”</p>
<p>He’s done his due diligence. He’s tugged on the heartstring, and now he should move on. Try the next name. But something makes him set down his pen, bite his lower lip. A whim, really, that makes him speak.</p>
<p>“Just tell her Rafael Barba called. And if she’s interested, to return this call. I’ll give you the number.”</p>
<p>When he recites the list of ten digits, however, it’s his cell phone. And there’s something in him that hopes you’ll call back with yours. For old times’ sake.</p>
<p>“All right. Thank you so much, I’ll be sure she gets it.” The receptionist hangs up, and Rafael feels like he’s run a marathon the way his heart is pounding.</p>
<p>Each call he gets the rest of the day is enough to get him tensing. Ready to lift and see an unfamiliar number, with your voice in his ear. What he gets instead is silence, and a couple of calls from Liv, during which he does his damnedest to keep the tension out of his voice. By the end of the day, he’s resigned to the fact that it’s simply a missed connection, two ships passing in the night. Another moment of dramatics, but he feels this one.</p>
<p>And then his cell rings once more. He doesn’t look at the screen, just answers and closes his eyes, ready to hear Liv’s voice again, or God forbid, Carisi.</p>
<p>“This is Barba,” he answers. That tension bleeding in once again, and the response he gets makes him a little breathless.</p>
<p>“Kings County not enough for you, Harvard boy?” you ask. It’s teasing, light, and it feels a little like he’s outside in the cold winter wind chill the way his nose surely must be red. “Now I know to send the damages lawsuit to Manhattan.”</p>
<p>His laugh comes out of him suddenly, and it matches yours. “I’ll give you the address. How are you, Doctor?”</p>
<p>You hum a little, and it buzzes against his ear. “Oh, it feels good to hear you say that, that’s for sure. But, honestly, I’m doing pretty well. I’m… doing what I love. Helping people.”</p>
<p>“Too good for the Bronx? Manhattan your mainstay?”</p>
<p>“Oh, please,” you huff. “My office is firmly in the old neighborhood. And on top of it, if I don’t come by every week, my mother has a conniption.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear.”</p>
<p>And it’s just that simple for you. Rafael has always had his sights set on the future, but you’ve reached it. And you’re content, and still with one foot in the place the two of you grew up. It’s… right.</p>
<p>“What about you?” It’s a question he’s honestly unprepared to answer. He doesn’t linger on it too long, because he doesn’t want to sound like he’s lying, but the truth is perhaps too much to admit to an acquaintance.</p>
<p>No. A friend.</p>
<p>“Manhattan is a little like home now. A lot like it,” he admits. In that moment the SVU crew comes to mind, but he pushes them away. But I have a case here I’m ready to be done with. I’m trusting your receptionist gave you the gist?”</p>
<p>“What she could.” Your voice is no longer light, something firm in it that he recognizes. The tone of work. “The message wasn’t a lot besides your name and your title, but am I right in thinking I’m going to be evaluating someone?”</p>
<p>“It’s a woman who was a victim of sexual abuse. I need to know what your read is on her.”</p>
<p>You hum again, lower, contemplating. “Anything in particular I’m looking for?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to influence you, or give any unnecessary details over the phone. Just know she’s in our custody, right now, and this case has been complicated.”</p>
<p>There’s a pause, and he does his best to emphasize what’s necessary, what’s true. “We’re trying to help her. Get her where she needs to be. I know it’s last minute –”</p>
<p>“I know the system, Rafael,” you murmur. You don’t hesitate to use his first name, and he tries not to think too much about how it sounds in your mouth. “Am I right in assuming that she’s potentially spending the night in the tombs?”</p>
<p>She’s not, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond, and he doesn’t have to. You’re telling him you’ll be there tomorrow, prompt, early, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Doesn’t mention that waiting for your call could’ve cost a valuable day’s worth of time.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he breathes, “I owe you.”</p>
<p>“For doing my job?” you chuckle. “This isn’t a personal favor, we should make that clear.”</p>
<p>“For taking my call. Getting back to me so quickly.” For humbling me when I needed it. For being a reminder every few years that home isn’t a bad thing.<br/>“Anything for a friend,” you return, and he ducks his head to hide his smile from the room.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And I do insist I owe you. For the nearly broken ankle, at least.”</p>
<p>There’s a pause. He can hear your breath catch, and he hopes, hell, he prays that there’s a smile on your face as you think of him.</p>
<p>“Then, let’s not wait three years to meet again,” you tell him. There’s a click, surely a pen in your fingers, perhaps spinning like his. “I’ll take drinks, once the case is done.”</p>
<p>“How about dinner?” Rafael returns, and he stands to his feet, his window gazing out on the street below. He’s glad he’s not limited by the cord of his desk’s line. The cabs breezing by too quick on roads with black ice, the gusts blowing the flags outside One Hogan Place. “More equivalent, I would say, if we consider twelve years’ interest.”</p>
<p>“I’m also counting the spilled coffee, of course,” you add, and Rafael scoffs.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you spill that on me?”</p>
<p>He walks into it, he supposes, but he doesn’t mind. “Well, then, I’ll return the favor. Two-dinner commitment, and all before we hit fifteen years of acquaintanceship.”</p>
<p>“Friendship,” he amends, and your little laugh is what lingers with him, what he thinks about as he prepares for tomorrow.</p>
<p>“Right. Friendship. Good night, Rafael.”</p>
<p>“Good night.”</p>
<p>The two of you say friendship, as you rise the next morning. Say friendship as you meet, and Rafael introduces you to the precinct. Say friendship, as the case ends, and those dinners begin, with laughter and warmth even in a snowy Manhattan evening.</p>
<p>But at the end of those dinners, twelve years in the making, the friendship is only the beginning.</p>
<p>After all, you look stunning, in your dress and heels, a deep red coat that compliments your lip color. Your hair is pinned up, but some of it has come loose, during the night, and those strands frame your face perfectly.</p>
<p>“Maybe Manhattan isn’t too bad,” you laugh, as the two of you step into the night air, “if it means you get to eat like that all the time.”</p>
<p>“There are definitely some low points, but the high points make it all worth it,” he tells you. He can’t stop looking at you, even as you pause at the curb, side by side and turning to each other. “Back home, then?”</p>
<p>“You’re not the only A.D.A. I work with.” You nudge him with your elbow, hands in your pockets to block out the cold. “Other boroughs, other work. Not to mention that Monday’s coming up quick. Patients.”</p>
<p>There’s a stab of jealously in him. Thinking about you spending time with the other boroughs, with other A.D.A.s at his office. But for some reason, he can’t help but hope that the smile on your face is just for him.</p>
<p>He takes a moment to pull out his phone, stare at the date on the screen. “Well, tomorrow’s not Monday,” he tells you. “Do you… think you could spare a few more hours? Another day, maybe?”</p>
<p>Your brow raises at him, and he finds himself loving the arch of it, especially paired with your smirk. “What are you thinking, Barba?”</p>
<p>“A couple of drinks, maybe.” He nods down the road, trying to play it cool even though his heart is pounding in his chest.  </p>
<p>You’ve gotten the gist. The idea. He knows it, and you know it, but you’re daring him to act with the way you bite your lower lip. “And after that?”</p>
<p>It’s a dare he takes. Jumps at the chance to act on, one of his hand lifting to cup your cheek, the other reaching for your waist. He kisses you, there, on the curb, winter in full swing around you, and there’s nothing else can think about but the way you feel against him.</p>
<p>When it’s over, it feels unfinished. Mainly because a part of him doesn’t want it to.</p>
<p>“What do you say? Willing to stay in Manhattan a little longer?” he asks, a little breathless as he looks down at you. Your lipstick hasn’t miraculously hasn’t smudged, but he still lifts a hand to trace his thumb along the perfect lower line. “I know a place you can stay.”  </p>
<p>“I’m almost convinced,” you reply with a laugh, voice light. “But if you kiss me again, we can make that an absolutely certainty.”</p>
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